Crimson Ascension

The history of the years that followed is riddled with dubious accounts of events. Some deemed it the most violent period since the creation of the Haven, while others hailed it as years of great progress and peace. Those were times of contradiction—of change. A matter of perspective, perhaps. The birth of two Archons in the same decade, however, undoubtedly shook the Haven to its core.

–Nerovian Orenn, Virien of the fallen House of Amethyst Dragons

Draven stood on the rooftop of a building, hand fidgeting on the handle of his sword. Today was the day they had been working towards—the Hierarchy Stand's elimination rounds ended. It was also the day when the majority of Ethernatus's Empyreans would flock to the Red Sands Arena to see the actual battles for dominance.

He would go the other way. If only Elevalein weren't so abyss-damned late.

The arena was south of where he was. The loud clamoring of young and old Empyreans alike travelled in the air like a Presence, turning the heads of the walking crowd below, gathering their attention. To the north, a castle complex towered above its surroundings. Its bricks were obsidian black, with windows painted a lighter shade of emerald. Five spires rose from the complex—one in the middle, the highest one, and the others surrounding it from the north, south, west, and east.

The Ark'Ennir Citadel, the residence of the Maker himself, the place where he hid the First Book. Somewhere inside it, I'll find the answers I'm looking for. Draven gripped the sword attached to his hip until his knuckles turned white. The power to stop what's coming.

What if it can't be stopped? Morph's voice emerged inside his head. You saw their strength, Aiden. The Maker and the Fallen aren't something we can contend against… not even with the power of our Malediction.

Not now. Draven admitted. But we are an Archon.

The Old World had already been a wasteland when he visited it, but the accounts of several explorers now spoke of a land shattered beyond repair. Not a single shred of life remained. The Hexbeasts had vanished with the Fallen. At least Varn'Kess would no longer face the outbreaks; Abyss take it, that city had been through enough.

Haven't you been paying attention to Nerovian's notes? All the other Archons stood no chance against him.

That isn't true. Draven grunted. None of the others have what we do.

The sword slumbered inside his astra, drowned deep within his hexion reserves. Morph sensed his thoughts and offered no further argument; he knew the Malediction changed things. Wielding the golden sword permanently strengthened his Presence—his will. To an Empyrean, that meant channeling more hexion, imbuing faster, defeating enemies without raising a finger.

It would have been a blessing had the price not been so steep. Every time Draven wielded the sword, he lost a part of himself. Memories.

Draven could no longer remember his mother's face. He yearned to listen to her voice, the soothing melody that had guided his youth with love and care. It had been one of the few things that made life in the Catalyst District worth living after his father died, and now it was gone—erased from his mind. Not even ashes remained.

What else would he lose the next time he wielded the sword? Draven shivered at the thought, for he knew that day would eventually come. When it did, would there be anything left of himself?

***

The familiar heartbeat foretold Elevalein's approach. His clothes were plain brown and blue, an attempt to blend in with the crowd of common people. He carried a wrapped package, long and thin—a sword, undoubtedly. Draven would have thought his brother's attempt at stealth funny had he not made him wait for hours.

"You're late." Draven shook his head. "Again."

"Of course I am!" Elevalein snapped back. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find you? Abyss take you, man, stop masking your Presence this much. How am I supposed to find you like this?"

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Elevalein's outburst took him aback, especially since he hadn't really been trying to mask the signature of his soul at all. Draven had set his shield ‌as usual. Well, at least I got better at it. He thought to himself. The years spent training in the Sixfold Corridor had refined his control over hexion to a point that he didn't fully understand.

"Maybe we will find a time travel remnant, so I can't prevent you from ever being late again," Draven said.

The frustration faded from Elevalein's face as he chuckled. "Now, don't be silly. You know time travel is impossible. If the Archon of Time himself couldn't do it, then a mere remnant has no chance of achieving it."

"Have you found him?" Draven asked.

"No, it's difficult to trace someone who doesn't have a soul. Impossible, to be precise." Elevalein raised an eyebrow. "What about your Trace of the man?"

Draven opened his hand. His jacket moved, and a small red crystal floated as if beckoned. It hovered above his palm, rotating in the air without support. He focused his will on it, connecting to the ethereal pathways that led to the crystal's origin. Someone—another will—attempted to block his senses, to stop the Trace, but Draven bypassed it with ease.

Helvan was far, impossibly so. Draven had no idea what the Archon's plans were, and that worried him.

"He's gone where we can't follow. It's far, Elevalein, far enough to make me question if perhaps there is a Mender capable of hiding his location from me," Draven muttered, shaking his head with resignation. With a last look, he put the Trace away.

"Don't be ridiculous. There isn't a Mender in the Haven who could do that."

Draven knew that. Perhaps he was missing something—a crucial piece from the puzzle that made seeing the bigger picture impossible. He had to find it. Somehow.

"You know, we could try that again. Before you can say no, just listen to me!" Elevalein laid a hand on Draven's shoulder. "I know the Sixfold Corridor is somehow bound to you. Even Finn, with his limited wits, can tell that. But Morph wasn't a part of you… I mean, you guys weren't one before the bond was created."

Morph emerged from the folds of Draven's clothes. He wiggled his way to Draven's neck, coiled next to Elevalein's hand with narrowed eyes. "You've tried to replicate the process many times, to follow us into the corridor. All failures—nothing short of torture sessions. It hurts, you damned cretin."

Morph hissed. Hexion glowed in his eyes, shone under his scales. The Evoker pulled his hand away, face souring.

"I… understand, Morph—"

"It's Hemomorph to you," Morph corrected.

"Right… I just can't help but feel I approached the problem the wrong way. You see, I've been trying to latch a part of my soul to yours, create a Trace of sorts so Finn can help us follow you in more than just a projection of consciousness." Elevalein waved his arms around, frantically pacing as he talked. It was clear that this was not the first time he had thought about it. "But what if we can't follow you?"

"Isn't that the whole problem?" Draven frowned. "We wouldn't be having this conversation again if you could."

Elevalein ignored the question. "Finn didn't follow you the first time. He doesn't need to; he can make his way to the corridor, even if he's nothing more than a projection. There are other ways to enter it. Maybe I can't follow your soul. Maybe Finn can't enter it with his astral body. But maybe—maybe—we can find a different way to do so."

Morph's dissatisfaction at Elevalein's insistence permeated their bond as emotion taken form, and Draven couldn't blame him. The Evoker's previous attempts at following his path into the Sixfold Corridor were painful—Dyad Vessel didn't lessen it in the slightest—but if there was a chance at making it work, Draven had to take it.

It was better to face the Maker with two Ascendances by side than alone.

"Alright, alright." Draven sighed. "It's worth a shot, Morph."

Morph narrowed his eyes and vanished amidst Draven's clothes.

"I'll talk to Finn about it. We will get this done, brother." Elevalein's face was determined. Resolute. "You won't have to face him alone."

Draven stood ‌on the rooftop, his eyes set on the citadel in the distance. With the torchlight fading to the silver glow of night, the shadows would be their allies. The Red Sand Arena would only become busier. The time to infiltrate the Ark'Ennir Citadel had come.

The secret to power—true power—was the mystic language of the runes. An Empyrean could only do so much, restricted to the boundaries of their paths, even though proficiency and talent contributed to diversifying their capabilities. Runes, however, were the cornerstone of reality. Each symbol ruled over a fundamental concept, much like Dreams.

Amplification and Reduction were two sides of the same coin. Stability was bound to have a counterpart as well. The same was true for Space, Absorption, and Regulation. The more he discovered, the more Draven would be able to do, the better his chances would be to stop the rising darkness that was prophesied to destroy the Haven.

His Malediction might have broken him out of fate's cages, but he'd need more than that to prevent what was to come. "It's time." Draven stepped off the roof, plummeting towards the ground.

Toward the Ark'Ennir Citadel.